Unlikely Allies
by ArabellaFaith
Summary: Based on the tumblr picture of Sherlock on the Hogwarts Express as the new Defense teacher. Sherlock Holmes takes a teaching post at Hogwarts and the adventure is just beginning... Plot written around review suggestions, read and review to have your idea written! (Note: the rating has gone up and will continue to as chapters progress)
1. Chapter 1

_**Hello all! Thanks for taking a peek in at this little story. I'm trying something totally different with this one, so we'll see how it goes. This story is based on the tumblr picture of Sherlock Holmes on the Hogwarts Express, headed out to be the new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher. (original link here originals/ec/6d/ed/ec6ded609571d34b4e2e1b47b00986ff. jpg)I've got a good start on it, but what I'd like to do once I get the introductions out of the way is make it more of a choose your own adventure story. Once I get plot rolling, I want all of you to decide what will happen next! Send me your thoughts, guesses, wants, and you all will shape the story!**_

He was not what one would consider a "people person." In fact, most people who knew him hated him (either a little bit or a lot). Not that he gave a damn. Most people were far too boring to bother him taking notice of them. This did not exclude children. So why was he on this blasted train (going eighty kilometers per hour, slowing slightly at every curve, thirty one curves in the trip, arrival time in approximately three hours fifteen minutes and eight seconds) headed out to a job that would most assuredly drive him utterly mad?

He'd been bored, that had certainly been part of it. The other incentive had been a favor he owed Taffit. Of course, he hadn't expected the old man to call in that favor this way, but there wasn't anything to be done for it. It wasn't that he _dis_liked children, specifically. They just...disinterested him. So predictable. So ruled by easily calculated and readable motives. And so irrational. Moreso even than the rest of the human race.

His musings were cut short when the door to his compartment cracked open and a pair of eyes peeked inside. They met his bored gaze and a sharp inhale followed. Student. Female. Fifth year. Only child. A scent coiled into the room. Two students. Second also a fifth year. Also female. Hushed whispers, clothing rustling. Their indecision began to grate on his nerves.

"Either enter the compartment and seat yourselves or get away from the door," he drawled icily. Another sharp intake of breath, more hushed whispers, then the door slid open the rest of the way and the young ladies entered. He waved his hand in a sarcastic welcoming manner towards the bench opposite him. The girls, one fair and blonde and the other a fiery red head, glanced at each other then sat.

"Sorry," the redhead mumbled. "The others are full."

"No they're not," he responded casually. Both heads jerked up to him.

"Pardon?"

"Have you a hearing problem? I said, 'no they're not.'" He turned his eyes down to his book even though he'd been ignoring it in favor of staring out the window before. Those damn hushed whispers resumed. What he'd previously assumed to be unintelligible because of distance and volume he now realized was totally incomprehensible even at close range. His eyes narrowed as he tried to place the words. They weren't Latin, German, Welsh, or any other known language. They were spoken rapid fire and each response was given without thought. What the devil were they saying? For a moment, he thought it was a language that had been invented by an author famous in the muggle world, but that wasn't quite right either.

"We looked," the red head insisted, drawing him back to the present.

"There are one hundred seventy compartments on this train, each seating six average sized students. Even factoring in one eighth of the population being above average, there are nine hundred and fifty seats available on the train. The average student body at Hogwarts is 900 students. Of course there aren't simply eight empty compartments, but there are certainly available seats. And a 97% chance that there are even two empty seats beside each other, as you two appear to be traveling together. So your excuse that the other cars are full is simply an a cover. You are obviously," he flicked a glance over them, a thousand things being seen and analyzed and filed away in his mind all at once, "unpopular with your peers, and hence do not wish to be in a compartment with them if it can't be helped. Not to worry, I am hardly your peers and have no interest in slinging insults about your clothing, hair styles, body shape, sexuality or monetary standing. But do try not to be too annoying."

They both stared at him in shock, mouths open slightly. He resisted the urge to roll his eyes at them. They were, after all, only children. Perhaps even slightly more interesting than other children- after all, they did speak a language that was unknown to the rest of humanity.

"Who are you?" The red head asked finally. She seemed to be the only one capable of speech.

"Sherlock Holmes," he replied. "Professor Holmes, to you."

* * *

The post he was taking had once been "cursed." Of course, Sherlock didn't believe that rubbish. There were curses, certainly, his world was full of them. But a succession of failed professors hardly made the post cursed. It only indicated a lack of qualified teachers. For the last five years, the position had been filled by a small rather forgettable man who had recently retired to Bismark with a rather large collection of Cornish Pixies. And so now Sherlock had come in to fill the slot.

He ought to have arrived at the castle nearly a month before the students. He'd brought his belongings as soon as his position had been secured, but then had been called away. Auror Listrade was truly a dolt at times. The cases he needed help on were usually hardly worth Sherlock's time. But this time, it had actually been one to capture his interest. Enough to temporarily stump his massive intellect. _Temporarily_, but even still. It had only been the day before that the pieces had finally clicked together and he'd led Lestrade to the culprit- a rather nasty wizard with a penchant for obliviating his victims so they had no recollection a crime had even occurred.

So instead of having arrived by more conventional means four weeks before, he was now sitting on the Hogwarts Express and sharing his compartment with two students who seemed to think he was the boogyman. He was tempted to say 'boo' just to see what they would do. But Headmaster Taffit had specifically asked him to try _not_ to alienate all the students and staff on his first day, so Sherlock held his tongue.

The little blonde girl surprised him by speaking for the first time. "The new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher," she surmised.

"Quite."

"Oh, wow!" The red head looked at him with new respect. "I'm really excited to take your course! There are a few spells I really want to master this year-"

"I highly doubt I'll be teaching the type of spells you are wanting to master," Sherlock interrupted. The red head looked put out.

"How do you know?" she demanded. Sherlock blinked at her lazily. Did she really think he couldn't see it? It was written, quite literally, all over her.

"Because the type of spells you are interested in are far above your year, if not your ability. You've obviously spent a lot of time protecting your fair haired companion and are looking to increase your arsenal of defensive spells. Judging by the way you lean slightly in front of her and the way your wand is gripped, I wouldn't doubt you want a few offensive spells added to your collection as well. Of course, its obvious from the way your friend is holding herself along with the spot she's already worrying on her bottom lip that she's already had to pull you back more than once and will continue to do so throughout the year. I can tell from your robes that your parents are wealthy but inattentive, and I can tell from hers that she hasn't any at all. You've tried to go to your parents about problems but they brushed you off. You've tried to get her to go to other professors to have the harassment stopped but she refuses. Quite correctly, I'm afraid. It would only make the matter worse. Which you've resigned yourself to. You expect quite a hard time this year. And since you've clearly already gone over your proper level in defensive spells, I can assure you that my course will _not _be teaching any you don't already know. As for offensive, well that would most assuredly get me sacked. So I'm afraid you're out of luck."

Again, they gaped at him. The blonde blanched, blushed quite becomingly, then lowered her head. Her more vocal companion narrowed her eyes and Sherlock could imagine if she were a kettle, there would be steam coming out her ears very shortly.

"Who told you that stuff?" She demanded.

"You did." Before she could interrupt with trite denials, Sherlock went on. "This is what I do. I observe, and deduce. You're quite easy to read. Your plight is written all over you."

"But you're saying you won't teach me?"

"Quite the opposite. I'm certain that you will be in my class. As your professor, I will teach you everything that I am required."

"But nothing more."

"Ah, no." He lowered his eyes to his book again, dismissively.

"You don't care." It was an accusation. Sherlock sighed and looked up once more.

"The muggles have a word for what I am. Sociopath. You could say that empathy is not _my area_. You've been getting along just fine from what I can see. You both have all your limbs still. Now if you happen to have one removed by your bullies, that you can come to me with and I will handle the situation by all proper protocols." When the red head opened her mouth (obviously to utter some oath at him) Sherlock stopped her with a raised hand. "I assure you that there is nothing your adolescent brain can concoct that I have not already been called. So I suggest you save yourself the detention for insolence and wait until we get to school and you can get in trouble for something much more worthy of your time."

The girl looked as if she might still insult him anyways, but the blonde put a small hand on her leg and squeezed lightly. Her mouth snapped shut and she only glared murderously. There was dead silence in the car for nearly an hour before the blasted whispers started again. Still intrigued by the language they spoke, Sherlock listened intently. He was utterly astounded to realize that even after twenty minutes of listening, he still had no idea what they were saying. There wasn't a language on earth that he couldn't gain at least a basic understanding of with a little practice. So why did this one elude him so? It couldn't be that complicated if children could master it so fluently.

After another ten frustrating minutes, he put down his book and cleared his throat. The girls stopped mid sentence and turned two pairs of emerald green and sapphire blue eyes to him.

"What language are you speaking?" he asked in his most polite voice.

"None of your business," the red head snapped. Her companion looked between Sherlock and her friend, then laid another restraining hand on the girl.

"How about a trade, then?"

When the vocal one refused to reply, the quiet one spoke up again. "What do you mean?" she asked almost suspiciously.

"You tell me what language it is that you're speaking, and I'll teach your hot headed companion a spell."

"What kind of spell?" the hot head in question demanded.

"A repelling spell. Anything thrown at/dumped on/kicked at/flicked toward the person its on will bounce back to whoever sent it towards them. I imagine that could be quite useful to the two of you."

They glanced at each other, obviously intrigued. Sherlock knew before they did that they would take the deal. They whispered animatedly in their language and then turned back to him.

"Deal." The red head offered her hand to shake on it. Sherlock regarded it for a moment. He wasn't a fan of touching. But the child would see it as a sign of closure of their arrangement. Grudgingly, he shook her hand. Her grip was surprisingly firm. He gave her credit for that. "We made it up," she said unceremoniously. "It doesn't have a name."

"Made it up?" Sherlock was surprised in spite of himself. Of course it had occurred to him that the language was made up, but it seemed far too complex for two teenagers to have invented.

"Yeah. Started when we first became friends. Second year. I'd just read this book that had its own language, and we already had our own way of communicating. It just kind of came out of that. We've both got a kind of knack for languages."

"I see." He'd been right about the book, but still, the root of the language escaped him. Interest piqued, he wanted to learn more. "And its safe to assume that you would be unwilling to share this language with anyone?"

They looked at each other, then the red head grinned. "As unwilling as you are to teach me advanced defensive spells."

Sherlock couldn't help the genuine smile that twitched his lips. She was crafty, he'd give her that. Maybe this could be a pleasant distraction from the tedium teaching would certainly present. At least for a short while.

"Let's start with the repelling spell. If you're not a complete idiot, we'll see what happens. By the way, what are your names? I think the other staff would look down on me calling you the Ginger and the Mute."

The girls snickered. It wasn't the reaction he'd expected, and again, Sherlock was intrigued.

"I'm Brogan, and this is Lila."

Sherlock spent the next hour teaching Brogan the spell. Lila didn't take part in the learning process in any hands on way, but her eyes stayed trained on them intently. Sherlock wouldn't be surprised if she was filing each moment away to call up again if needed. Brogan, he found, wasn't quite as stupid as he expected most of his students would be. Of course, that didn't prevent her from getting so frustrated at one point that she threw her wand at his head, but all in all she did quite well.

By the time they reached the castle, she'd practically mastered the spell. Sherlock had conjured up a glass of water and dumped it over her head. Her shoulders got damp, but not soaked. When he'd conjured another glass and tossed it at Lila, Brogan had cast the spell with stunning speed and the blonde hadn't ended up with a drop of water on her.

The train came to its usual grinding halt and the girls gathered up their things.

"You'll think about teaching me more spells? If I teach you our language?" Brogan looked up hopefully at Sherlock. He weighed his desire to know the language against how annoying it would be to teach the girl. Then he gave one brisk nod.

"Provided you keep the lessons to yourself, and provided you don't annoy me too much. You've got yourself a deal."

Brogan grinned. Lila flashed a shy smile, then both girls left the compartment. Sherlock waited until the first mad rush of students had left. Then he gathered his coat and scarf closer about himself and exited. He was a head taller than most everyone in the writhing crowd, which made navigation most convenient. The first years were herded towards the boats while the rest of the students piled into carriages. As Sherlock looked for the least crowded coach to take, he spotted Lila and Brogan. Lila glanced around to make sure no one was paying attention to them, then reached out and patted the Threshal's nose.

Once more, Sherlock was slightly surprised. He considered it safe to assume that ninety eight percent of the student body had no idea that the Threshals even existed, let alone could see them. But Lila wasn't just putting out a blind hand, so to speak. It was obvious she could see them plain as day. It occurred to Sherlock to wonder who she'd seen die, but he dismissed it as unimportant. When he noticed a group of rather boisterous boys elbowing each other and pointing at Lila, Sherlock made his way over to the girls. Obviously they were shunned by most of their class mates, so whichever carriage they took would be the least occupied one. Logical. And convenient, as he planned on heading off the boys.

It would be too much work to assign that many detentions.

He reached the girls a good ten steps ahead of the jeering boys. "Might I suggest," he offered lightly, "that if you want to make friends with animals invisible to most people, you wait until you are in a more private setting? If nothing else, to save your friend from having to use that spell quite so soon." Lila glanced around guiltily and noticed the boys. Brogan looked too and gripped her wand.

"I can deal with them," she whispered fiercely. Lila responded by putting a light hand on Brogan's shoulder. They communicated in a curiously wordless manner, and then Brogan relaxed.

"Be that as it may," Sherlock murmured. "Shall we?" He gestured up to the coach. The girls climbed in first, then he followed. A few lingering students looked to the carriage, then skittered off to other ones to cram themselves in. Sherlock couldn't help his smirk. "It seems the extent to which your peers have alienated you two will be quite convenient for me."

Brogan shot him a look that would have cut glass, but Lila giggled. After a moment, Brogan giggled as well. Sherlock only continued to smirk.

* * *

Upon arriving at the school, the girls went off to sit at their tables. Were he that kind of man, it might have been a little heart breaking to see them separate. Brogan was a Ravenclaw and Lila obviously a Hufflepuff. Fortunately, Sherlock didn't suffer the defect of sentiment, so he watched them part with only mild curiosity.

After the school had been rebuilt nearly a decade before, an enormous effort had been put into unifying the houses. Mostly, it worked. The student body had been traumatized enough to shake off stigmas about their classmates. During regular meals, students were encouraged to sit wherever they liked, without division. There were no longer common rooms for each specific house. Only general common rooms available for the use of all. But during the sorting ceremony, they were all required to sit with their own houses. As he'd expected, Lila sat by herself at the end of the Hufflepuff table. And also as he expected, Brogan sat on the edge of a quiet group of Ravenclaws. It was obvious they weren't on _un_friendly terms, but it was just as obvious that they weren't close either.

Brogan would certainly have more friends if she simply shunned Lila as everyone else did. Though he himself had never seen the point to friends, he wondered why Brogan didn't forsake her companion in favor of popularity. The curiosity lasted long enough for him to walk to the head table and take his seat. There were quite a few new faces among the staff that year, and headmaster Taffet made their introductions during his speech.

"Welcome all, to another year at Hogwarts! We look forward to filling your heads once more, now that summer has sufficiently emptied them! There are several changes this year, as you can see. We've added some new faces. Madam Pomfrey has, alas, retired and gone off. She has left us, however, in the very capable hands of her star student, Molly Hooper. I trust you will all come to know and love Miss Hooper just as dearly as we loved Madam Pomfrey, and treat her with as much respect and deference." He waved down the table and Molly stood for an awkward little curtsey. Sherlock's eyes landed on her briefly, then flicked away. "Also joining us this year is a new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor. Professor Holmes will now have the pleasure of guiding you in the craft and I am sure you will all learn from his extensive knowledge and unique teaching methods." Sherlock grudgingly half stood in acknowledgment. Mutters broke out around the Great Hall. Sherlock ignored them all. "And lastly, Madam Hooch has also left us to pursue a career in private instruction. But perfectly filling the rather large shoes she left will be Dr Watson. He's recently returned from the Minotaur wars in Romania, where his flying expertise saved many a life." The doctor rose with the help of a broom shaped walking stick and gave the crowd of students a salute. "One more thing I'd like to say before I turn the floor over to the Sorting Hat, our caretaker Mrs Hudson has asked me to remind you all that she isn't your housekeeper. Please pick up after yourselves!"

Then he sat, and the Sorting Hat was brought out. It eyed Sherlock angrily, then sang its song. Sherlock could remember with perfect clarity his own sorting nearly thirty years before. The magical hat had been stumped. He wasn't a Gryffindor, certainly, though the hat had made up some nonsense about him being brave in ways he didn't know. And he obviously wasn't a Hufflepuff, despite the hat spouting poppycock about how in the right circumstances he could be fiercely loyal. Rubbish. The problem was that his vast intelligence combined with his cold deduction abilities had him tied for the Ravenclaw brains and the Slytherin cunning. Sherlock had decided that he was more like a Slytherin in that he would pick and choose which knowledge to retain based on what suited his need, rather than the Ravenclaw reverence for all knowledge. But the Sorting Hat had stubbornly insisted that Ravenclaw was a better fit for him. Asinine, since the hat hadn't had an opinion until Sherlock had made his decision. There was always an element of choice (despite the fact that not everyone knew that) so Sherlock couldn't understand the hat's insistence. They'd argued for a good ten minutes. Sherlock had made every persuasive, logical argument he could. He'd even used his budding deduction skills on the hat – which the old scrap of burlap had resented immensely- but in the end, the hat had ignored Sherlock and put him in Ravenclaw.

Once the decision had been made, Sherlock didn't waste any time on regret or resentment. He simply dismissed his house placement. He'd never bothered much with friends, quickly learning that they were fickle and cruel. He hadn't ever cared which house won, hadn't bothered to feel guilty if he lost his house points or pride when he won them.

The hat, however, obviously still held a grudge. Foolish thing. While the hat went about sorting the first years, Sherlock turned his attention to the flying instructor, Dr Watson. He'd made more than a dozen deductions in the three point two seconds the doctor had stood for. Now, he let himself file them back out and ruminate on them. The doctor had obviously been a captain. Despite his doctorate, he'd led an aerial battalion. The doctorate itself said much about the man. He'd been educated in the wizarding world as well as the muggle one. Respected in both. Perhaps even a little feared, though once he'd been a genial man. Now he was stoic, probably a bit bitter about his need for a walking stick. Sherlock could tell instantly that it was all in his head. Even a flighty healer like Miss Hooper would have been able to fix the doctor's leg had it been an actual wound. The limp had more to do with his head than his leg. But that was the doctor's business, not Sherlock's.

As the feast ended (Sherlock had been too distracted by the dozens of bits of information assaulting his mind to eat) the students began to file out to their dormitories. He noticed the shock of copper and the streak of white-blonde gravitate towards each other like magnets. Brogan and Lila were at each other's sides in an instant. Curiosity mildly piqued once more, Sherlock watched to see which direction the girls would go off in. They would each be in different dormitories, but they didn't look like they were preparing to be parted for eight hours. They reached the main stairs. The Ravenclaws were headed up, the Hufflepuffs headed off to the right. The girls' pinkies linked, Brogan winked, then they parted. Lila grinned. Sherlock decided it must be more of their somehow silent communication. But he knew for absolute certain that the two of them had no plans to stay apart for the night.

The staff stayed behind to talk for a few minutes. Sherlock, of course, did not partake in their idle chatter. The incessant prattle was likely to give him a headache. Instead, he stood off to the side and watched. Observed. Deduced. He was not surprised to discover five separate affairs, three rivalries (two of which the other party weren't even aware of) and a multitude of lies- mostly harmless.

He observed with some amusement, Molly Hooper fluttering around Dr Watson. The woman had a ridiculous excess of good intentions and a short supply of self control. She giggled nervously and chattered in a near constant stream. The Doctor, a rather taciturn man, hardly got a word in edgewise and seemed ready to bolt at the first opportunity. He was, however, far too polite to run outright. He nodded to Miss Hooper's ramblings, smiled in a way that didn't look _too_ strained, and tried in vain to excuse himself. Eventually, Professor Moriarty turned and caught Molly's attention and the doctor made his great escape.

There would be times it would be annoying, frustrating, mind numbing, but teaching at Hogwarts would certainly never be boring.

_**Thoughts, suggestions, comments? What do you want to have happen next?**_


	2. Chapter 2

_**Normally I feel these disclaimers are redundant and totally unnecessary, after all, if I owned these characters I'd be putting these scenes into their respective books or shows, but since several scenes in this chapter come directly from the show I'll remind everyone that I own nothing except my own muse : )**_

_**Shoutout to Couldntcomeupwithagoodname for asking to see his interactions with other teachers!**_

Sherlock managed to alienate most of the staff and infuriate most of his students on his first formal day of teaching. He was honest to a damning degree with his peers, which of course had nearly all of them piping at him. And he was abrupt, abrasive, and demanding with his students. He managed to insult almost everyone in the castle in less than twenty four hours. A few of the staff merely brushed off his offenses (like Mrs Hudson, who'd known him years before when he'd helped in a case involving her now deceased husband, so she only shook her head indulgently at his antics) but most developed strong and abiding grudges.

Despite his shortcomings – as others saw them- as a person, he was excellent as a teacher. What he lacked in patience, he made up for in brilliance and ingenuity. The skills he had couldn't be taught like a trick, but he opened the student's eyes to a whole different world of knowledge. So many of them were focused on slinging curses and hexes that they wouldn't have even noticed had their opponent been blind. Sherlock taught them to root out those weaknesses. Exploit them if necessary. He taught them how to spot the subtle differences between various creatures of nefarious sort. They were grudging, but they learned. They _excelled_.

The one thing Sherlock never put up with was cheating. It wasn't that he was against it as a rule. He'd cheated before to get his way. If he'd had a student clever enough to cheat properly, he probably wouldn't penalize them one bit. They would have earned it. The problem was that they were so transparent! Did their little minds never extend past auto correcting quills and temporary memorization charms? Where was the ingenuity? The creativity? On those dull attempts, he cracked down hard. He took points with the ease of flicking away a fly. Gave detentions at the drop of a hat.

He was so good at rooting out cheaters that a few of the other teachers, even ones who detested him, utilized his skills. Word quickly spread through the school that no one could cheat with Professor Holmes watching. Some of the worst culprits even developed a kind of respect for his ability to spot them. For a rather rambunctious pair of Slytherins it became a sort of game, to see what they might be able to sneak past him. They had yet to actually succeed, but they were always good natured about loosing.

Professor Flitwick had asked Sherlock to help him discover who kept stealing his tests before he gave them. It had happened three times, which was finally enough to drive the short professor to seek Sherlock's aid. Initially, Flitwick had taken great offense to Sherlock's dismissal of his subject and insult to his stature. But once he'd seen that it was simply how Sherlock treated everyone, he'd allowed the comments to roll off his shoulders.

It had been quite easy for Sherlock to find the culprit. Less than five minutes of him examining the scene of the crime, in fact. Which was why he was headed down to the Quidditch field in search of a certain Gryffendor boy. Normally he would have waited until the end of class, but Flitwick had nearly been apocalyptic with impatience.

As he stepped out into the sunshine, Sherlock's eyes were drawn up to the sky. He found flying to be a rather inconvenient and frivolous means of travel. There were so many more convenient ways. Even still, he could appreciate the skill and ability it took to navigate a broom properly. He could tell from the way Dr Watson maneuvered his Nimbus that the man had talent. Then again, he wouldn't have been captain of a battalion if he hadn't been good. He was focused on helping a small group of boys get the hang of leaning to steer and didn't see the students that had circled around Lila.

Sherlock knew that Brogan and Lila had nearly every course together -though he'd yet to discern just how they'd arranged that- but Brogan was nowhere to be seen. He found it unfortunate that of all of the classes for them not to have together, it had to be one that was the most physical, the most aggressive, the one with the most chance for unsupervised interaction between students. Lila was on a small, older model school issue Cleansweep. Most of the kids around her were on brooms they owned, all of much newer model. Though he was too far away to hear, and though Lila gave no outward sign of being affected, it was obvious that the children were taunting the girl. She did not react to them in any way. One boy grew bold and started to fly in aggressive circles around her.

Sherlock was impressed at her ability not to let their antics bother her. He'd learned that lesson himself at an early age, but knew it was particularly difficult for children to grasp. They tended to have such an instinctive need to fit in with and even impress their peers. Lila seemed above such petty needs though. Just as Sherlock reached the edge of the field, the boy circling Lila kicked the tail of her broom. The already dilapidated broom spun wildly, sputtered, then plummeted to the ground.

Sherlock raised his wand to stop her fall, but she was stopped before he could say the spell. Dr Watson had turned just in time to witness the kick, the fall out, and had time to react in several different ways all at once. He cast the spell to stop Lila's fall, then with lightning speed cast a body bind on the boy, and in another flick of his wand had every broom in the sky beginning a slow assent to the ground. A few students who hadn't been paying attention to what happened were confused and tried to get their brooms to rise again, but they were all firmly in Dr Watson's control. It was actually rather impressive.

When they were all on the ground, Dr Watson stormed over to the student still in his body bind. "Jeremiah Moore!" His voice was tight with outrage, his face dark. Children scattered in his wake. Unable to move, Jeremiah's eyes were the only indication that he feared the usually reserved Professor's wrath. "How dare you?!" He turned from the boy with a disgusted look and went to where Lila had settled back to earth in a feather soft landing. "Are you alright?"

She nodded shakily but said nothing. Despite the flying instructor's outrage, Sherlock couldn't help but think that the boy was lucky he was dealing with the professor rather than Lila's short tempered companion. Whatever punishment the doctor had in mind would seem mild compared to what Brogan would have inflicted upon him. Watson checked her over himself and then turned back to Jeremiah. He stalked to the boy, lifted the bind, and glared while he stumbled and then righted himself.

"Are you homicidal, Jeremiah?" Watson demanded. The boy shook his head slowly. "Are you certain? Because it seemed to me that you just attempted to murder a fellow student."

"Dr Watson-"

"Shut up! I don't want to hear what you thought you were doing. I don't care what your excuse was. The fact is that if I hadn't seen what happened, hadn't stopped it, Miss Hershwith might very well have fallen to her death. Would you have wanted to be the one to tell her parents?"

"She hasn't got any," Jeremiah muttered sulkily. A look of rage so stark it made the students gasp settled on the doctor's face. His control seemed to be holding only by a gossamer thread. When he spoke again, the words were an icy whisper that was more chilling than any yelling could have been.

"You are never getting on a broom again in your academic career, Mr Moore. And if I have my way, you'll be lucky if they expel you and save you from the punishments I have in mind for you. Get out of my sight." He turned away from the now pale and shaking Jeremiah and was about to address the rest of the class when Sherlock spoke up.

"I'll take him off your hands, if you don't mind," he said casually. Dr Watson turned to him shortly.

"Professor Holmes," he greeted curtly. Sherlock hadn't had much chance to be around the flying instructor and so had yet to have offended/alienated/outraged the man. His sharp tone was merely leftover anger from his interaction with the wayward Mr Moore, and Sherlock didn't take it personally at all.

"I was just coming to take Jeremiah to see the headmaster anyways," Sherlock explained. "It seems he's been cheating on his transfiguration tests." He turned to Jeremiah. "Isn't that right?" The boy cringed even more.

Watson glared at the boy once more. "I'll come with you then. I think the headmaster needs to hear about this most recent transgression personally." He shrunk his broom until it shaped itself into his walking stick.

Sherlock shrugged. "As you wish." He turned, gesturing Jeremiah ahead of him. Watson started to turn, then went back to Lila who was still standing silently.

"Miss Hershwith, you're the one he's wronged the most grievously. You have a right to speak to the headmaster about it on your own behalf if you want. Would you like to come with us?"

Lila went perfectly still, then shook her head ever so slightly. The doctor paused, concern on his face.

"Are you certain?" This time, she nodded, and he sighed. "Okay. Are you sure you're alright?"

"Fine, sir," she said in that whisper soft voice. Watson cleared his throat and turned to the whole class.

"You are all dismissed." The students started to turn away, but be froze several of them in their tracks with his next words. "And those of you that witnessed Mr Moore's atrocious actions and encouraged them, I'd advise you to tread very carefully. You will not like the consequences should you cross that line." The soft anger in his voice, more promise than threat, had several of the onlookers shivering. A few shot glares at Lila but most ducked their heads and went off. Lila waited until most of them had gone before turning and heading (as Sherlock had known she would) toward Brogan's class.

Sherlock, Watson and Jeremiah all went toward the castle and into the headmaster's office. The boy had begun to sweat profusely the closer they got. He took turns glaring between the professors. Watson only spared him cold glances, but Sherlock couldn't help smirking. When they arrived at the door, Watson rapped on it loudly. They waited a beat, then heard Taffit give them permission to enter. Professor Moriarty stood off to one side, his wand at the headmaster's pensieve. Watson nodded at him in greeting, then marched up to Taffit's desk. _Always the soldier_, Sherlock thought.

"Headmaster, we have a serious problem."

"I can see," Taffit drawled amiably. "What seems to be the issue, Mr Moore?"

"Nothing," Jeremiah muttered, head still down. Taffit's brows rose sharply.

"I think your professors disagree. I'm giving you a chance to speak for yourself before they tell me what happened. Only a fool wouldn't utilize this time."

"I was just fooling with the freak!" He stopped short when Watson's glare cut to him with burning intensity. "Lila, I mean. I wasn't trying to hurt her or anything. I only kicked the broom a little. Not my fault the thing dropped like a stone!"

"Only a little?" Watson was outraged, but Taffit held out his hand restrainingly.

"You'll get your chance to speak, John, have no doubt of that. But let us allow Mr Moore to finish first." Taffit turned from the obviously angry Watson back to Jeremiah. "And what about the issue Professor Holmes has come to share with me?"

"I, uh, well I was only fooling around again! Its not like it hurt anybody. Plus, Flitwick's tests are always too hard, everyone knows it!"

"_Professor_ Flitwick, Jeremiah."

Jeremiah swallowed, then nodded. "Yeah. Professor Flitwick. So I nicked his test copy. Just to ease things up a bit."

"Sherlock?" Taffit turned to him. "Have you anything to add to that?"

"He was rather boring about it," Sherlock shrugged. "Broke into Filius' office, used a simple lifting spell on his course notes and took the test. Managed it three times before Filius called me in."

Taffit nodded, then turned to Dr Watson. "And now, John, your input?"

"Jeremiah and a group of students had circled Miss Hershwith while I was teaching the rest of the class. Despite her having done nothing to them, they were taunting her. When that failed to get a rise from her, Jeremiah purposely kicked the tail of her broom while they were more than fifty feet into the air. Her Cleansweep spun out and then fell from the sky. If I hadn't turned around just in time to see it happen, she could have plummeted to her death."

"I see," Taffit said softly.

"And then," Watson continued, "when I confronted him about it, he flaunted the fact that she's an orphan to the class, as if that excused his behavior. He showed no remorse for nearly ending the life of a fellow student, as well as displaying intense insubordination to a professor."

"I see," Taffit repeated. He turned his attention back to Jeremiah. "It seems, Mr Moore, that you broke into a professor's private quarters, stole, cheated, all multiple times, partook in bullying a student, endangered a life and then showed no remorse for it, as well as being impertinent to a teacher. Does that about cover it?" Jeremiah said nothing. Taffit sighed. "We cannot have that sort of behavior at this school. A student at Hogwarts should never have to fear for their well being from a fellow student. And no pupil at Hogwarts should be so desperate for attention to take such drastic measures to get it. I'm sorry, Jeremiah."

The boy started yelling, shrieking about how unfair it all was, how much everyone had it out for him. Moriarty, who had been standing quietly off to the side, stepped forward and put a hand on Jeremiah. He silenced immediately, though his mouth continued to move. By the time he realized he'd been silenced, Moriarty was already speaking.

"Forgive me for interrupting, Headmaster, but might I suggest an alternative to expulsion?"

"I'm listening."

"Mr Moore is one of my star pupils." Jeremiah jerked his head around and stared at Moriarty. "It would be a dreadful waste to have him leave the school. Let me bring him under my direct supervision. Assign fitting punishment to him for his wrongdoings, and then he can spend his free periods, spare time, and any other time he might get up to no good, in my care."

Taffit considered. He truly hated expelling students. It never went well for them. Most became bitter, some became criminals, and no one ever benefited from it. But was it worth it to have a student in the school with so little regard for his peer's lives? He didn't think he could take that chance. But if Jim was willing to take on full time supervision of the boy, would there still be any risk? And he could warn the other professors to keep a closer eye on Jeremiah as well. Maybe the boy could be reformed...

"Very well, Jim. On your head be it. Mr Moore will serve detentions with Professor Flitwick, Dr Watson, and Professor Holmes-"

"Holmes? But I didn't do nothing to him!"

Taffit looked sharply at Jeremiah. "You are lucky, young man, to still find yourself a student of this school. I do not want to hear a single word of complaint about your punishment, whoever it comes from." He smoothed his robes. "As I was saying, Professor Flitwick, Dr Watson, and Professor Holmes. Then, any free time he has between his punishments and classes will be spent under Professor Moriarty's direct supervision." He sat once more, effectively dismissing them. When Jeremiah turned to leave, Taffit's soft voice made him pause. "Consider carefully, Mr Moore...one more step out of line and I will be forced to send you from the school. You've been given a second chance. Do not waste it."

Then he went back to his papers.

* * *

Sherlock had no interest in spending his free time baby sitting a juvenile delinquent. He quickly made up some atrocious copy work that Jeremiah would be doing during three weeks of detentions. Flitwick would surely have an even harsher punishment in mind, but Watson's was the worst. Mr Moore would spend every Friday evening and Saturday afternoon for the rest of the school year in detention, cleaning the quidditch field by hand. Once he'd made himself clear, Watson sent Jeremiah off with Moriarty.

He sighed, watching the boy go. Insolence he could deal with. He'd had many a soldier under his command who resented authority. He knew how to handle it, even understood it. But to be so careless with the lives of others... And to bully, to the extent that it could result in death, a person obviously far weaker than themselves... It was something John simply couldn't stand for. He'd already seen too much meaningless death. The fact that yet another might have occurred right under his nose sent a shiver down his spine. He was still angry, too angry. It seemed he was always too angry these days. It wasn't that he couldn't get over the war. He'd done what needed done, regretted nothing. But ever since he'd become a soldier, life as a civilian made him jittery. Maybe he simply wasn't meant to live in the regular world. Was he fooling himself to think he was safe to be around children?

With a shake of his head, he turned to the professor who had come for Jeremiah. Technically, Lila had this man to thank for John having noticed her peril in time to save her. If he hadn't seen the other professor striding onto the quidditch field, he might not have turned when he did. Feeling as if he needed to say something, he settled for holding his hand out.

"John. John Watson," he introduced.

"I know." Sherlock took his hand briefly, barely suppressing his grimace at the contact. Why did people insist on being so damn touchey feeley? "Doctor, not a title you hear much in the wizarding world. You were trained in muggle society as well then? At Saint Bart's in London, yes?"

John blinked in surprise. "Uh, yes. How did you know?"

Sherlock stopped himself from sighing. Did no one open their eyes and really observe the world around them? "The same way I could tell that your sister's a drunk and your limp is psychosomatic. I observe."

"Wh-what?!" John's eyes narrowed. "What the bloody hell-"

"Oh don't bother to be offended. Its not your fault you've got family with problems any more than it's my fault that I noticed them. And if it bothers you that much I can cure your limp."

"Wait. Wait just one bleeding moment. What the devil do you know about my sister?"

This time, Sherlock couldn't suppress his sigh. "I can tell she's a drunk by your owl."

"My owl."

"Yes. It was a gift. Not the kind of bird a man would buy for himself, especially one just back from a war and off to work at a school. A gift then. From a female, that much is obvious by the plumage. Not a lover, or else your tastes would have been taken into more consideration. Family then. Family you don't see often, hence the gift of an owl, but family you don't care to see often based on your current life situation. Sister you disapprove of."

"How could you possibly know about the drinking?"

Sherlock smiled. "The bird, of course. Your sister is one of the few people you write to. The owl follows your hand as you attach your letter, moves its leg closer to you tie it on. Normally a bird hasn't got to do that. But a bird who's used to dealing with a drunk, someone with shaking hands and blurry vision, that bird will show those signs every time."

There was a long silence between them. Sherlock waited patiently for the expected expletive. For the good doctor to call him a wide assortment of names and then storm off. He was disappointed.

"Brilliant," John breathed.

"Pardon?" Sherlock was so surprised that he turned quickly to John and then back again. John was grinning, looking at Sherlock as if he was some sort of genius (which of course he was, but so rarely did people seem pleased when they found that out!).

"That's bloody brilliant."

"Huh. That's not what people usually say."

"What do people usually say?"

"'Piss off,'" Sherlock said casually.

John chuckled. "Yeah, well I can't blame them. Its quite a lot to take in for people who don't always want to see the absolute truth about themselves and their loved ones. You were wrong about one thing though. My limp's not fake."

"I didn't say fake. I said psychosomatic."

"Same difference."

"Not at all."

"Neither has any physical cause. Close enough."

"Yes, but one has a very real psychological cause. It affects your body the same way a physical one would. And is cured just as easily by the right person."

"The right person being you?" They had started walking now, companionably moving towards the castle doors and out into the sunshine.

"Obviously," Sherlock agreed.

"And just how would you propose to do that?" The doubt in John's voice as as clear as a billboard advertisement. Sherlock smirked, glanced over John's shoulder, and let his eyes go wide. His jaw dropped, body started to shake. He gasped, pointed, voice trembled.

"M-mi-minotaur!"

John turned like a shot, wand out quicker than lightning striking. His sharp eyes scanned the landscape, then immediately relaxed as he saw nothing. He rolled his eyes. "If you thought that would-" He was cut off as he turned back by Sherlock decking him in the jaw- hard.

"No, but this will." Before Sherlock could enjoy the solid punch he'd got off, John had launched himself at Sherlock. John was shorter but more muscular. Sherlock used his height for leverage as well as his uncanny knowledge of human anatomy to hold his own against John's combat training. They were fairly evenly matched, Sherlock's brain against John's reflexes and brawn. The fight tumbled out onto the quidditch field.

John heard blood pumping in his ears, his adrenaline flowing quick and sharp through his veins. He felt oddly _elated._ Here was a challenge. Here was something real. Something he could pit himself against and use all his ability. For the first time since leaving the war, he felt energized, necessary, and so vitally alive. His anger at being sucker punched had drained away leaving behind only the thrill of the fight, the joy of battle. He knew he should stop trying to tear the other man apart, but couldn't bring himself to do it quite yet.

Sherlock let the fight go on for another few minutes just to prove his point more fully. Also, he was oddly impressed by the doctor. Not only had the man not instantly hated him for his deductions, he'd actually seemed impressed. It was ridiculously refreshing. And the fact that he could handle himself in a fight was yet another plus. Most people were all bark and no bite. Dr John Watson had too much bite for his own good. Being penned up, without an outlet for all his ability, was physically handicapping the man. Sherlock wondered how he'd do as an Auror. Probably well. Not that he seemed likely to change professions (John was obviously a loyal man, steadfast to a fault when he made a decision). It occurred to Sherlock that it might behoove him to have a man of action such as the doctor around when he was doing his investigations.

He was so suddenly distracted by the thought that John got off a full punch to his jaw. He went back a step, steadied himself, and looked at the doctor in amused surprise.

"Right then, enough's enough." Sherlock caught the next blow before it fell and twisted John's arm behind his back. They were both panting from exertion. "I think blow for blow's fair play, don't you? Call us even then?" John fought to catch his breath, let the heat of battle drain from his body. He nodded.

"Yeah. Fair's fair." Sherlock released him and stood back to dust himself off. John straightened his coat and turned. "Care to tell me what that was all about?"

"Oh, just proving a point." Sherlock took a few more deep breaths to steady his breathing, then gestured across the quidditch field to the doors of the school. Laying in the grass beside them was John's broom walking stick. Smug smile firmly in place, Sherlock started strolling casually back toward the school.

John looked at the broom lying innocuously in the grass, to the man walking away from him, then down at his leg. It didn't ache for the first time in months. He took one ginger step and realized to his joy and horror, he didn't limp. Of course he was elated that he wasn't crippled any longer. But had it really all been in his head the whole time? What did that say about his mental state? He quickly caught up with Sherlock, thoughts beating at his mind. When they reached the doors, Sherlock grabbed the broom, shrunk it down even further so it would fit into John's pocket, and handed it back to him. He could read the other man's face like a book.

"Don't worry, you're not crazy."

"How can you tell that? By my tie? The way I lace my boots?"

"No no, those things tell me more about your childhood and your history with women. I can tell by the cure for your limp that you're not crazy."

"I'd think the opposite would be true."

"A man who gains a psychosomatic limp because he's traumatized by battle is the one that needs to have his head examined. Needs to be treated for the trauma. But a man who's limping because he can't help but need the action of war, the drive and purpose, that man only needs a new focus."

"You're saying I was limping because I missed the war?"

"I'm saying that for a man like you, being aimless is a debilitating impairment. You need a cause to fight for. You need action. Sedentary life does not suit you, doctor."

"And your solution is a knock down drag out fight?"

"A temporary one."

"So you think my limp will come back?"

Sherlock stopped, turned to face John fully, and grinned. "Oh no. I think we can find a way to keep it from returning."

_**Ok everyone, here is where I really need your imput. I've got the stage laid...what do you want to happen next?**_


	3. Chapter 3

_**Sorry I'm a little later with my update than I'd planned, but I had a house full of guests this week and cooking twice a day for 9 people ate up all my writing time! I managed to get some in today (though I was sad to see them leave!) and special thanks go to AustenLux, who wanted to know more about the girls (and had some interesting predictions about Moriarty. Hmmm...) and to Jay, who wanted there to be a mystery for John and Sherlock to solve!**_

_**Also, extra special glitter and unicorns and cookies thanks goes to BranowynIvy- editor, sister, chief conspirator- for being her usual amazing self in helping me develop this story. If you have any interest in HP stories or Boondock Saints stories, check out her stuff. It'll blow your mind!**_

Anyone who'd seen their fight wouldn't have thought that they would want to be anywhere near each other after that. But just the opposite happened. John and Sherlock became nearly inseparable. Between classes they could often be found talking in the corridors. On weekends and holidays, John accompanied Sherlock when he went to assist Auror Lestrade on a case. The two of them became something of a sensation at the ministry, solving more cases than any of the other aurors put together.

Somehow, they were well matched. John kept them with both feet firmly planted on the ground while Sherlock saw the bigger picture. Together they seemed...complete.

Headmaster Taffit couldn't have been more pleased by the situation. Sherlock's students and fellow professors felt the same. With John around, Sherlock was less likely to go off on a rant. He was also less likely to insult someone's whole family without even realizing it.

At first, Brogan hadn't been happy about the two teachers becoming fast friends. To her, it had spelled the end of her private lessons. And perhaps it would have, if John hadn't taken to watching after Lila. When the flying instructor found out Sherlock had been teaching a student fighting spells well beyond her year (or what should have been taught in school at all) he'd been furious. But it had been Lila who'd said that Professor Holmes was only teaching Brogan so she could defend Lila. It had taken a little more persuasion, and John had been sure to give Sherlock a lecture about creating mischief, but he'd finally give in.

So Brogan and Lila's lessons continued. It had taken Sherlock less than a month to learn the language they'd been teaching him in exchange for their lessons. It would have taken much less than that even, had the language been set up in any logical way. But it was part made up book language, part shortened English, part book and movie quote and part silent communication. All together, it was a modge podge of words and phrases that only the two of them- and now Sherlock- could understand.

Long after he'd mastered the language, he was still teaching the girls. Of course he claimed it was only so that he wouldn't have to be bothered with giving detentions to their tormentors, but John knew better. Sherlock- cold, clinical, unfeeling Sherlock- had grown to like the girls.

Brogan actually reminded Sherlock of a young, fiery version of John. She was startlingly loyal, capable of great violence in the name of protecting those she cared about (Sherlock had learned of John's possession of that particular trait on a surprisingly fascinating case involving a string of poisonings and a Night Bus driver). She was no great intellect, but somehow like John, she possessed just enough tenacity and creativity to make up for the loss.

Even with all those things, the girl might have eventually become dull to Sherlock perhaps, without the constant company of her friend. Lila was fascinating to Sherlock. He'd heard the story of her background quickly enough. Apparently her father had drowned her mother and then killed himself. Lila had been found two days later soaking wet, holding her mother's lifeless body and rocking back and forth, unable or unwilling to speak. It had happened before she'd been old enough to attend Hogwarts, but the story of her parent's grisly murder/suicide had spread through the school like wildfire. Perhaps even worse for her, students with morbidly active imaginations had taken the story one step further, speculating that perhaps Lila had killed both her parents and somehow escaped justice. That, more than any social differences or awkwardness in manners, ostracized the girl from her peers.

All except Brogan.

In the first seven seconds of knowing them, Sherlock had deduced much about their relationship. After seven days, he knew more about their future together than even they did. And after seven months, he found himself pleasantly surprised that they could somehow manage to shock him.

The night of the welcoming banquet, Sherlock had disillusioned himself and done a few investigations. Nothing of overt importance, merely trifles to satisfy his curiosity. As he's guessed, Lila and Brogan hadn't separated to their respective dormitories for the night. Less than an hour after bed, Lila had slipped from the portrait to her rooms and moved with ghost like silence down the corridor. In her white night gown, with her pale hair down around her shoulders, she did look ethereal.

A few twists and turns later and she was outside an empty space of hallway. Less than ten seconds later Brogan slipped into the corridor as well and the girls hugged. Wearing a red flannel night dress and with her copper curls escaping from a wayward braid, she looked just as bright as her companion looked pale. For a moment, some thread of errant thought ran through Sherlock's mind about them being like the sun and the moon. Drivel. He deleted it immediately.

Even before the door began to materialize, Sherlock had turned and was striding back down the hallway to his own quarters. It was obvious they were using the room of requirement for a place to sleep, safe from their peers. He could practically see them in there, settling down for the night and talking in their special language, probably falling asleep with hands only inches from touching in a subconscious need to be close to one another.

It had taken John longer to discover their sleeping arrangements, but he'd been coerced into keeping mum, surprisingly, by Sherlock. Of course his real reason was wanting to have something to hold against them, should he ever need their unquestioning cooperation, but what he'd told John was that it was much more logical that the girls spend their nights together. Less likely for their classmates to stay up into the night plotting pranks against them, more likely that the girls would get good sleep and do well in their classes the next day. But by that point in their friendship, John could see through even Sherlock's delusions about himself and could see that he was trying to do the girls a kindness.

Such human reactions from Sherlock were so rare (and his logical reasonings had actually been sound) that John let it slide. And he continued to let it slide.

When the 'accidents' started happening, he was grateful he had. Because until he and Sherlock could figure out who was behind them...both girls needed each other for protection.

* * *

It started out innocuously enough. Lila's things began to disappear. Which wasn't actually all that unusual for her. Children could be cruel and it was easy to fall back on old stand bys. First it was her school robes. The orphanage that was Lila's home in the summer months had only paid for one set of robes for her, so she was relegated to wearing Brogan's spare set. They were considerably nicer than her own (which were second hand) but had the disadvantage of being much too long for her. And Lila refused to let Brogan try and charm them to fit her, as that had before resulted in the complete ruin of a set of robes. Despite Brogan's insistence that her parents could certainly afford more, Lila wouldn't be budged. She did not resent her friend's wealth, but neither did she wish to abuse it.

Then it was her shoes. One day, every single pair of Lila's shoes disappeared into thin air. Nary a slipper had been left behind. The solution to this had been easier, as the girls' feet were the same size, but the other students made sure to point out the change. Both girls were taunted. Lila for having to wear her rich friend's shoes, and Brogan for being so desperate for friends that she'd give her shoes to the 'crazy girl.'

These taunts were not met with docile reactions on Brogan's part.

John had deflected the worst of Brogan's punishment for lighting other student's robes on fire (explaining to Taffit that the flames were spelled and would burn clothing or books but not skin- he neglected to mention that they would have burned hair, as well) and Sherlock momentarily turned his deductive skills to locating the lost items.

By the end of the night, he'd found every last trainer and had them wrapped up in her threadbare school robes and shrunk down into his back pocket. It was just after lights out, and Sherlock had planned to leave the parcel with Lila in the room of requirement while she waited for Brogan to finish detention.

He rolled his eyes as he heard voices around the next corner. He really found it a waste of time to have to give out detentions. It punished him just as much as the students, taking time away from his experiments, distracting him from more interesting cases. He slowed down, hoping the offenders would take their mischief to another part of the castle and save him the hassle. Alas, it wasn't to be. He sighed and mentally resolved to make their detentions very unpleasant indeed...

"Murdering little freaks like you need to be marked, so the whole world can see what you really are. I think Killer Freak would go well on your forehead. Maybe on one of your cheeks." The speaker was a sixth year boy who proceeded to draw a short blade from inside his robes. "Hold her still," he ordered the ones holding Lila's arms. At the sight of the blade, a single tear snaked down her face and Sherlock could see true panic there. Not just at what they planned, but echoes of horrors past.

Time slowed to a crawl from the first moment he'd taken in the sight of the boys surrounding Lila. His brain could process several dozen things all at once, all in fractions of seconds. One part of his mind was instantly calculating if he would be close enough to them to physically intervene before they started cutting her or if he would need to use a spell to rescue the girl. Another part of his mind was wondering just how it had come to this- so far from mere school yard taunting- and how far they intended to take it. Some lower part that he usually didn't utilize unless he was alone recognized the pang he'd felt for her when they called her 'freak.' It was an insult that had been slung at him on more than one occasion. In fact, it had happened so often that he's started responding to it with a kind of sick glee. Only in the basest, most vulnerable part of himself could he admit that it always stung. That his haughty delight at the insult was actually his armour against it's burn. Hearing the ugly word used on Lila...it caused a reaction he wasn't sure he wanted to examine too closely. It was almost as if he cared. As if he could _empathize_ with the girl. Which of course wasn't possible. Sociopaths, by definition, didn't have empathy. Maybe he'd just been spending too much time with John lately...

Of course, his calculations had been correct. He reached the boy with the knife with a good four point two seconds to spare before the blade hit Lila's skin. Four pairs of eyes went to him instantly, all wide with panic.

"Well, now...what have we here?" he drawled.

"It's an outrage!" John exploded. "Utter rubbish! I have half a mind to file a complaint with the school's board of directors."

"Taffit is only doing his job, John. Your outrage, while understandable, is pointless."

"They drew a knife on her! They were going to-" he stopped, fists clenched in rage and unable to finish the sentence.

"I am aware of what happened, as I was actually there and was the one who relayed the events to you," Sherlock pointed out mildly. John only glared at him.

"Why aren't you more outraged about this? How can you just sit there calmly while those boys are getting off with barely a slap on the wrist?"

"I don't waste my mental powers on useless pursuits. There isn't anything to be done, hence it no longer matters."

"It bloody well matters to me! And it should matter to you. It would, if you weren't such a sodding _machine_. You've been tutoring those girls the whole year! You know them better than any other student, and somehow you can't be bothered to care that one of them was nearly mutilated right under your nose!" John had stormed over to where Sherlock was sitting and was nearly shaking with desire to lay the other man out. Like a shot, Sherlock stood and gripped the front of John's jumper, yanking him forward until they were nearly nose to nose, with Sherlock staring down at John. There was something akin to rage in his eyes.

"Care, doctor?" he hissed. "Is this what your 'care' amounts to? Raving about injustice, making idle threats that will do nothing to change the situation? If this is what caring for those girls is, then you can keep it. I'd rather spend my time doing something that can actually be of _use_, like figuring out who is behind these attacks and stopping them. My time is better served getting results, John." Sherlock released John and turned away, disgusted. With himself for allowing the rare display of physical emotion, and with John for failing to see through the cold exterior to the man within. Usually John was the only person in the world who could see inside him, could tell that what others saw as cruelty or coldness was efficiency and practicality. It bothered him more than he thought it would for John not to see it this time.

The sigh behind him was long and drawn out. John dropped a hand on Sherlock's shoulder and turned him back.

"Look, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that. You're right, me ranting about it isn't going to get anything more done. If Taffit's hands are tied because those boys 'didn't actually do anything,' then we should be looking for another option. I'm just worked up about it is all."

"Apology accepted, John. Sometimes being a _machine_ has it's advantages. One of those being the ability to see through a situation to it's heart." John winced at Sherlock's repeat of his insult, but he knew another apology would be rejected as redundant.

"Right then, what's at the heart of this situation? And what did you mean by 'attacks?' There have been others?"

They resumed their seats and Sherlock let a small, knowing smile curl his lips -the sting of John's lack of faith pushed aside- and began to explain.

"Two weeks ago, I found the lock to the cage of wild Cockatrices in my class room had been tampered with. Had I not observed the signs and corrected the problem, the bulk of them would have broken free during my planning session and attempted to overwhelm me."

"Cockatrices?! A dozen of them can take down an armed wizard! I'm not even going to mention how stupid you are to keep a group of them anywhere near your classroom."

"I'd appreciate that, for expediency sake," Sherlock agreed with a smile.

"Then how did you realize the lock had been tampered with?"

"Easily, John. I observed. I deduced. The signs were clear for anyone with eyes to see. Well, anyone with eyes and half a brain," he amended. John rolled his eyes. "The door to my classroom had been opened after I last closed it. Not damning on it's own, of course, but suspicious. Then I saw that the cover cage was off center, as if it had been replaced hastily. Not my style at all, so I investigated further. I won't bore you with the specifics of what I noticed on the lock itself that told me it had been tampered with and would fail, but suffice it to say, I did."

"And did you _deduce_ who did it?"

Sherlock scowled. "Not Yet. And before you get too smug about that, let me remind you that I was distracted by the girl who'd been somehow transported from her dorm to just outside the Forbidden Forest, in convenient reach of the Womping Willow. As appiration is impossible on school grounds to all but a select few, that couldn't have been the cause. When questioned, the student claimed not to have been practicing magic of any kind at the time, ruling out a spell gone awry. Which leaves only a few possibilities. Either the girl was lying about what she was doing when it happened-"

"There's no way Susan was lying. I saw her face, Sherlock. She was terrified."

"Then unless the school has decided to purge itself of students, the only option left is a purposeful trap laid for her."

"You mean you think someone meant to send her out there? She could have been killed!"

"Precisely."

"Who would do such a thing?"

"That's exactly what I plan to find out. The game, my dear doctor Watson, is on." The sly smile was back. John wanted to box the man's ears. This wasn't a game. Student's lives were at stake here. But he knew that underneath that icy exterior, Sherlock did care, no matter what he claimed. He lived for the intrigue, the puzzle, the high of the chase, but he did care- whether he liked it or not. Remorse for what he'd said earlier came back and tapped him on the shoulder.

"I didn't mean what I said before, you know. You're not a machine, Sherlock."

Sherlock didn't look up. "If that's true, you're the only one who thinks so."

"Yeah, well I don't know that anyone else's opinion matters."

And he was right. John's opinion _was_ the only one that mattered to Sherlock.

_**What do you think, my lovelies? What's next?**_


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock let John have the honor of coming up with the detentions for the boys who'd attacked Lila. Oh, and were they creative. If he didn't have such a damnably high moral code, Sherlock thought John would have made a marvelous sadist. In less than a week, all three boys were bitterly regretting their decision...and there was still two months of detentions left.

Perhaps because of his detention ideas, John was the next to be targeted by an attack. Not a direct one, of course. Oh no, that would have been too obvious, too forward. And it never would have worked. John had seen battle- a frontal attack on a man like him would likely result in the assailant taking up permanent residence in St Mungos.

He was out on the quidditch field before his first class of the day. Though he hadn't needed a cane since his fight with Sherlock, he still kept his broom shrunk down to the size of a wand and tucked into his sleeve. At first it had been because he didn't entirely trust that he wouldn't suddenly need the cane again. Later, it was because it was convenient to have his broom handy. With all the crazy situations Sherlock got him into, having an easy exit was a must.

John pulled his shrunk broom from his sleeve and righted it to it's normal size. The familiar wooden handle was warm and smooth. It felt good in his hand. Right. On the ground, he felt like he was bumbling along half the time (and spending his days with a certifiable genius with the grace of a swan didn't help that thinking any) but in the air, on a broom... Then he was untouchable. It was like something inside him suddenly righted itself and he had perfect equilibrium. The only other time he ever felt so at peace was, ironically, when Sherlock was dragging him into danger and intrigue.

He mounted the broom and kicked off, planning on taking a few warm up laps around the field before students began to arrive. The cool morning air rushed by his face briskly. Invigorated, he sped up, leaning into the curves and letting his momentum send the broom shooting forward. When he spotted the first of his students start to assemble on the field, he leaned back to slow the broom.

Nothing happened.

He pulled back more sharply, gripping the handle and pushing down with his heels against the tail. Still nothing. The broom began to pick up speed, faster and faster. It came to the next curve and John couldn't get it to turn. It didn't react at all to his movements. He shot forward, off the quidditch pitch and over the forbidden forest. Absolute calm settled over John. He did not panic, his hands did not tremble. Keeping strong fingers of one hand curled tightly around the broom handle, he freed his other hand and reached for his wand. It didn't react to a spell lifting charm. No outside forces were controlling it, nor were there any jinxes on the broom. He cast a diagnostic spell next, and tried to read it as the broom shuddered, then pitched forward top over tail over and over.

The whole thing was disintegrating from the inside out. The slowing mechanism had gone first, then the steering. Auto balance had stopped and soon the whole broom would drop from the sky. Just as he thought it, the broom stalled, then plummeted to the earth.

The trees rose up to meet him with startling speed, their usually peaceful looking tops suddenly becoming twiggy death traps. John rolled so he was on his back, tucked the broom against his chest and cast three spells in quick succession. The first slowed his descent, the second propelled him forward- out from over the forest- and the third stopped his broom from disintegrating any further. He barely cleared the trees when he lost the rest of his altitude and went to the ground. Because the fall had been slowed, he was able to flip until he landed upright, rolling with the impact and coming to his feet almost instantly.

Across the field on the quidditch field, several of his students broke into applause. John looked up and realized he'd had an audience for his performance and felt heat creeping into his face. He gave a little salute and walked over to them.

Sherlock strode casually out onto the field as if he hadn't just sprinted down three flights of stairs to get there. To anyone else, it would look like he just happened to pass by. But as soon as John saw Sherlock, he spotted the other man's wild hair and slightly laboring lungs and knew that because Sherlock had seen John in trouble, he'd come running. It was ridiculously comforting. There was just something about being cared for by a person who hated everyone. It made him feel...special. Silly, but there it was. John grinned at Sherlock and made his way over to him.

"Alright then?" Sherlock asked him with deceptive casualness.

"I've been in tighter spots," John replied with a smile.

"Undoubtedly, captain." Finally, Sherlock was able to return the smile. "Perhaps you'd like to send your entourage off so we can take a look at your broom?"

John realized the students were staring at them- some with interest, others with outright curiosity. He turned back to them and waved his hand. "Class is canceled this morning. Return either to the Great Hall or your dormitories until next class." The edict was met with a few groans, a few cheers, and two lingering stares. John just stared back at them, waiting for everyone to disperse. When the last students wandered off, he turned back to Sherlock. "Right then. What'd you reckon is wrong with it?"

Sherlock took the broom carefully from John and ran his own diagnostic on it.

"It just started coming apart at the seams. Brakes, steering, altitude, all dropped out. I already checked it for malicious spells. There weren't any. And no one was hexing it from the ground, either."

"No. This was tampered with before you got on it. A spell that had already done it's work by the time you started flying, leaving almost no trace."

"So there's no way to tell what it was or where it came from?"

Sherlock gave John an sly smile. "I said _almost_."

They went over the broom for nearly an hour before gathering enough information on what happened to be able to deduce the spell used and how to reverse the effects. Sherlock thought the latter to be a waste of time ('why not simply buy a new one? It would be infinitely easier.') but John was insistent ('because it's my broom, that's why. I don't want a new one, I want _this_ one.') and eventually Sherlock acquiesced with an indulgent shake of his head ('sentiment, doctor,') and a smile.

"What I'd like to know, is how they got close enough to the broom to cast the spell to begin with. From what I've seen, you keep it on your person at all times unless you're sleeping. And even then, it's never far. Unless you were so foolish as to not ward your doors at night, I fail to see..." Sherlock's sharp eyes noticed his companion's quick grimace. "No. John, tell me you don't. Please tell me that I haven't been running around with someone dimwitted enough not to even ward their doors at night."

"Hogwarts is the safest place on the continent! What would I need to ward my doors for?"

"Perhaps to keep murderous little ingrates from hexing your broom?" One raven brow rose in challenge.

"Well hell, how was I supposed to know that one of my own students would try to knock me off?"

"Always assume _everyone _is trying to knock you off, John. You'll live longer."

"Blimey, is that what you call living? No, I think I'll keep on living my way, thank you very much. I already spend half my time thinking someone is going to try to off me. I don't need to spend the rest of it like that too. Besides, if someone is going to break in and attempt to kill me, I don't want to hide behind wards. I want to face them head on. If I'm going to go out, I'll do it fighting."

"Such a Gryffindor," Sherlock accused with a shake of his head. "Besides, your extraordinary bravery- no don't take that as a compliment!- did you absolutely no good in this case. Not all attacks are as forward as you lionhearted brood seem to think they will be. It is foolish not to take into account cunning and treachery."

"Oh shut up," John complained. "I'll ward the door from now on."

"See that you do," Sherlock commented lightly, stubbornly ignoring the relief that swept through him at John's acquiescence.

* * *

What had started out as a curiosity, a project, became a crusade for Sherlock. He'd been interested when the attack had been targeted at him. Intrigued (and though he wouldn't admit it, concerned) when it was directed at the girls. But almost from the day of their fight, Sherlock had considered John his. His partner, his only friend, his...John. The perpetrators of the attacks had made a mistake. They'd gone after the one thing in the whole world Sherlock Holmes truly cared about. They'd gotten a ruthless, genius, sociopath to focus the whole of his considerable power on finding and punishing them.

No one fucked with his John and got away with it.

After that, any incident that was remotely suspicious came under Sherlock's scrutiny. He studied the student body, the staff, the intermingling of both, with eagle eyes. He collected data obsessively, filing it away in his mind to be called up later and compared to other pieces of the puzzle. And despite the seemingly random bits of information, the lack of pattern, an outline began to form in Sherlock's mind...

* * *

"Class is dismissed," Professor Moriarty called jovially. He smiled at his students, easy charm emanating off him in waves. "Brogan, if I could have a word with you?" Lila looked over at Brogan, unsure if she should wait or not. "Just you, Brogan. Won't take but a minute." The smile widened.

"I'll meet you in next class," Brogan said to Lila. The blonde nodded once, her brow furrowed in thought. Then she gathered her books and headed out of the class room.

"Alone at last, my dear," Moriarty chuckled and Brogan felt a strange stirring of unease. It was such an odd thing to say. But Moriarty had been nothing but polite and kind in his classes. Odd at times, but then again, it wasn't more odd than a professor who laid out another one in order to help him. "I've noticed that your classmates seem to alienate you a bit, my girl. It seems like quite the lonely path you're walking." He propped his chin in his palm and continued to smile up at her. Brogan shifted her feet.

"I've got Lila," she finally said.

"Ah, but one friend when you could have so many? Such a waste," he _tsk_ed. "You really ought to be the center of attention, you know. With your natural charisma, people should flock to you. Students and staff alike. Even your parents should be doting on you. They do, don't they?"

"I...uh no. I mean, it's fine. I'm happy."

"Oh my dear, this won't do. You've got such _potential_. It's all there, within you, waiting to get out. And I could help you with that, Brogan. You do want that, don't you? The respect of your fellow students, the attention of your parents...?"

"How?"

"Just come under my private tutelage and let Uncle Jim handle everything. There are a select few others that I mentor. You can join their ranks and let me help you become who you were always meant to be. It's all there, Brogan, waiting to come out. Everything you've ever wanted."

Brogan tried to calm her whirling mind. Professor Moriarty was right, it _was_ everything she'd ever wanted. Soft, seductive thoughts wrapped themselves around her mind and refused to let go. She shook her head to try and clear it, try and think of anything beyond the compulsion to give in to whatever he asked for, allow herself to become malleable to his will, be shaped by him.

"I..." Resisting became harder and harder. She kept wondering why she was even trying, when it would be so easy to just say yes, allow herself to be remade in this great man's image... But what would happen to Lila if Brogan joined Moriarty's circle? The thought pulled her from the muddled wants of her mind. "Can I think about it?"

For a moment, Brogan thought she saw hatred cross her professor's face. It was gone as quickly as it had come, making her wonder if it had even been there. He stared at her for a moment with genuine curiosity. And then the genial smile was back, wide and so dulcet that Brogan felt a little bad for thinking malignant emotions ever even crossed this man's features. "Of course, my dear. Take all the time you need."

"Thanks, professor." Brogan's relief was clearly evident in her quick exhilation. She smiled back at him and turned to leave. At the door, he spoke again, making her pause.

"Oh and Brogan," he smiled winningly at her and lowered his voice as if sharing a secret with her. "Let's keep this between us, shall we? The kind of knowledge I can offer you...well there are those that wouldn't be pleased that you've been selected to receive it. People too blinded by jealousy or worry to see your true potential."

Again, the compulsion to do as he said filled her mind, blocking out all other thoughts. Her brows drew together in concentration, then a serene smile light her face. "Of course, professor."

_**Whew, another chapter down, and now some major plot building! Thank you all so much for the reviews I've gotten so far! Please don't forget to let me know what you want to have happen next! Aside from a basic outline (accomplished only with the help of the lovely BranowynIvy) I'm flying by the seat of my pants here, so I need to know what you want me to write about : )**_

_**And on a side note, I came up with an entirely different story that I could weave into this one (after the current mystery is solved) which involves Snape and Hermione, a spell to remove ten years of memories, and of course Sherlock and John's help to solve the case!**_


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